


Dawn

by Paradise_Birds



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, I hope it's worth it lmAO, I take pride in being my own personal problem :D, I was two thirds of the way through an angst piece, I'm writing this exact tag at almost 5 in the morning and i'm up at half 8, It's mainly a Neville/Florence study but most people are mentioned here and there, Missing Scene, Neville's POV, Relationship Study, TL if you're reading this please know that you're not fueling my bad sleep, This was going to be a small part of a Nev + his team S9/10 Relationship study I'm working on, also my tags are a mess, and now it's three plus days of work and almost 4k and wow, and then it was going to be a drabble, and then my brain went "WRITE THIS", can you tell I almost exclusively worked on this in the middle of the night during a school week?, i realise, it'll be a trend, so here it is i'm not entering the fandom with angst- that's for later :))
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradise_Birds/pseuds/Paradise_Birds
Summary: She’d become such a key part of his life in Saint Marie, that he’d never even considered what it would be like without her. Florence’s presence felt like a given, almost as predictable as the sun rising each morning.-=-=-Returning home from Catherine Bar's after she enquires about his potential feelings for a certain someone, despite his hesitancy to come up with an answer before, he realises that Catherine might just be on to something after all.[ Set during Episode Five - A Neville/Florence Relationship Study, with a helping of fluff on the side. ]
Relationships: Florence Cassell/Neville Parker, Neville Parker & The S10 Police Team
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Listen so I love Neville and Florence and if things don't go well next episode I might have a little cry but in the meantime have some Neville "I'm not in love with Florence... _oh my god I'm in love with Florence."_ Parker while we wait.
> 
> Also! **Possible TWs/CWs for themes of grief, and mentions of parental death/the death of a loved one.**

Detective Inspector Neville Parker is not the type of man to forget something. Quite the opposite, really. He's always found quiet pride in his ability to pick up on the small things- little details no one else seemed to care about. Sure, it probably annoyed the living daylights out of whatever co-worker drew the _(more than likely literal, knowing his old lot)_ short straw when he needed someone to work a case with him, but it solved the case in the end, didn't it?

_Then how did he not see this coming?_

Bolting the door of the shack, and walking over to sling his bag down off his shoulder into its usual resting place across the room, he stops in place as his eyeline becomes level with the curved stack of shelves he’d bought months back, tucked into the corner, with his metal detector propped beside them. In the top cubby, a simple silver ring sitting on a coaster, surrounded by some of the other treasures he’d found along the way.

_The hum of the metal detector zips through his head again, stopping the two of them in their tracks. She gasps, gaze flicking up to meet his and shining, smirk growing on her face._

_“If this is treasure, we split it 50-50. Deal?”_

_It surprised him back then, how willing she was to actually entertain the idea that his efforts might actually reward them anything. Though he happily accepted anyway, as they dropped to their knees, and began to dig._

Soon enough, they’d found it. A ring buried in the sand. Though despite the time spent trying to find its owner on the island, even months after they’d first put the ad out, it had found home amongst the collection of trinkets he’d collected over time. Though most might not consider it the kind of _“treasure”_ he might have been looking for- _even amongst the uncommon coins or knick-knacks that might have some actual value-_ he’d always considered it one of his favourite finds, for some reason. Maybe it’s because he feels it must’ve been special to _someone._ And that makes it worth something to him.

Glancing over even more of the items, his mind runs through different conversations- where each one came from and when, what they are, sometimes even the ins and outs of cleaning each of them up. It’s a wonder she listens to all of it with the number of things he’d picked up over time, going up and down his own beach until he’d pretty much covered all of it _twice_. She’d even been kind enough to help him organise it one evening, along with pretty much the rest of his things as well. 

After losing basically everything in the fire that occurred three months into his life on the island, he’d practically jumped at the chance to revisit some of his old interests when he came across them online. Well, along with fitting the shack out with some things that would be worth it in the long run: some magnetic nets for the doors and some _very safe_ candle holders among the list. Even found a few books and DvDs about the actual island he was living on. 

Though some of them haven’t even moved from their shelves, packed into corners waiting for a chance to be used, but there’d never been a time that he’d thought to look them out. If anything, the messiest shelf was the one in his kitchen. Different cook books stacked up on it, with a binder of printed recipes in polly-pockets nearby. Even if he’d been useless in the kitchen for most of his life, _(never really got along with ovens, tended to always burn himself in one way or another, no matter what precautions he took)_ , with a little time and a lot of effort, he’d managed to cook himself dinner most evenings nowadays. Catherine almost thought he wasn’t eating for a while after he passed up on his usual “chicken and chips” three days in a row. She’d even given him some copies of her own recipes, and he’ll admit, _(_ _without most of the spices, at least, for personal reasons),_ they’re very good. He even makes his own crab callaloo sometimes- though, making sure to buy the crabs fresh but _thoroughly dead._

That’s another thing she’s helped with, isn’t it? Without Florence’s help, he wouldn’t have even made the callaloo for the competition in the first place, and that’s far more than just the fact she was willing to take care of the crabs on her own while he dealt with _literally anything else._ Sure, it took them three hours, ended with a lot of mess and something that wasn’t too far from the colour of _moss_ , but it tasted pretty good. He still smiles when he looks at the ribbon on the wall. Even if she ended up finding out that his fear came from an embarrassment he’d _never quite shaken off_ , rather than allergy, she didn’t seem to judge him at either time. Despite having known her less than a month at that point, he still felt comfortable enough, even back then to share the story at all. 

She’s always been warm, he knows that much. Well, not _physically-_ he doesn’t know _that_ , _(and he pushes the thought from his mind before he thinks too hard about the matter)-_ but even when they’d first met, part of him really hoped they’d manage to get along, and _thankfully_ , they do. 

_Really, really well…_

But he’s thankful for it. Despite the drastic difference in his surroundings compared to his homelife in Manchester, he had in fact managed to find a routine he was happy to follow- far more content then he ever thought he’d be. 

_Her..._ And the others, of course. 

His job had become the centre of his routine- but it had become less about the work, and more about the people there. He looked forward to heading in every morning, even if it was just small cases and grievances to deal with, because the team always seemed to make his day. Back home, he could’ve planned his days out almost to the dot with hardly any variation, but now? Surprisingly, he’d learned to be far more adaptable than he’d ever been. Maybe that’s because new things tend to pop up every day. Or at least, they _feel_ new. When moments came along with a chance to travel across the island to go help someone, or the times where he started using his pub-quiz skills to help J.P. learn parenting trivia for help at home, or talking with Marlon on the veranda over a couple of takeouts on the latest episode of whatever show was on TV the previous night, or the mindsets of local criminals for some theft-related cases _(all ideas of which are just from word on the street, he swears)_ , or literally any of the occasions where Florence came to him with another idea to add or tick off the bucket list. Sure, some didn’t go to plan, but he always found himself drawn to spending time with her, no matter what they did. She was good company, even before they fell into the rhythms and routines of working together on the daily. 

New experiences felt… _safe_ with her. A familiar smile and encouraging presence beside him, helping to guide him through every time. He doesn’t feel fear like he used to- he still gets scared from time to time, but for an island full of things he’s got a list of _mainly medical_ reasons to be scared of? It’s not something that crosses his mind much these days. Like a kind of shield, he trusts her to look out for him, practically with his life at this point. Never just _surprises_ him with trips out, checks and gives him time to prepare if an opportunity arises- looking back on it, he doesn’t know where he’d be without her. He’d become comfortable in the concept of her always being there, giving him enough confidence to step out of his boundaries because she always seemed to be with him when he did.

Maybe that’s where this whole thing started. She’d become such a key part of his life in Saint Marie, that he’d never even considered what it would be like without her. Florence’s presence felt like a given, almost as predictable as the sun rising each morning, shining across the ocean and through his curtains in the same soft haze that lit up the ocean outside his door as it peeks up over the horizon. 

But _apparently_ , at some point during the past year- _(on his end, at least. According to Catherine)-_ that friendship had… developed. 

_Really?_ Nothing out of the ordinary had _happened._

Okay, looking back on the past few months, he _had_ tended to… make room in his plans if Florence arrived with a suggestion of something to do, but that's just because he’d been doing well with adapting! Her ideas were usually brilliant, anyway, so why wouldn’t he jump at each opportunity? It was just enthusiasm, surely. And it was paying off! He’d done more _stuff_ in the months since his last _major_ hospital trip than he had _before_ said trip, and that must count for _something_. If they’d been spending more time together, it was just because of that. What else would it be?

They were the same as always, right? 

… _Right?_

Maybe if he distracted himself, he’d come to some kind of conclusion. Or at least take his mind away from the matter. 

There’s still a number of box-like bags piled near the door- he hadn’t managed to put them away the evening he and Florence went shopping, and over the next two days he’d been unsure where to actually _put them_ , so he’d just let them sit until he really had the time to put them away. Even if he should be going to bed, he doesn’t feel tired at the moment, so he lets his backpack slump into its usual chair, and heads over.

He’s on his fourth bag when he spots something he _definitely_ doesn’t remember buying. Even if he’d only gotten through about half his new wardrobe when the Commissioner suddenly _appeared,_ he would’ve remembered picking it up. _Especially_ considering what it is.

It’s fully unraveled and turned upside down before he actually realises what it is. A light blue, cotton dressing gown, with different patterned navy flowers all across it. It’s soft too. There’s a moment of utter _confusion_ before he realises why the hell it’s in there in the first place. _She would’ve had the time to buy it in that shop- he’d been looking around while she went to the desk, but why?_

Then, he realises what it reminds him of.

_“ Sir… Are you wearing my dressing gown? ”_

Christ, that was _months ago_ … Within their first week of knowing each other too. 

Then, he remembers something else. _She’d asked where a pen was, didn’t she? While he was getting dressed back into his regular clothes to head out to the crime scene…_

A little scrambling through the tissue paper of the bag later, he finds the item’s receipt. Price scribbled out, and a note jotted on the back. _“ My gift. Hopefully it’ll keep you cool and covered when you need it. “... What..? Wait- oh god the hospital gown-_

 _(As comfortable as he’s become with himself over the years, with the number of doctors who’ve probably seen notably worse for numerous reasons, he tries his best to ignore the rush of blood to his face as he regretfully remembers the matter.)_

Unfortunately, it’s in the moments that follow he _also_ remember that he practically did the same thing _intentionally_ by accident when he thought she was someone from the doctor’s office when they first met. 

…He really didn’t make a good first impression back then, did he? From scrambling about for clues, to burning down the shack then having to crash on her sofa, and all the other idiosyncrasies she’d had to put up with just living under the same roof as him for those couple weeks while the repairs were being done. It strikes him that even back then, while people he’d been working with for _years_ tended to roll their eyes and turn away from his slip-ups, Florence had consistently been kind, even if she likely was just as- if not more- annoyed by him at first. 

For a start, she’d actually _agreed_ to the idea of him sleeping on her sofa in the first place. All the way back then, she’d mentioned that having to start his routine all over again might be a _“blessing in disguise”.._. If it was _her,_ maybe she was right. He’d tripped right into her life, and yet he was still her, somehow, safe and sound.

Along with her hospitality, even if she had her questions, she didn’t hesitate to help him with something if he asked. Filling his thermos, searching an entire apartment for a single button. Solving the mystery of his “sick building syndrome”. _(Apparently, he must’ve mentioned at some point he’d always liked the idea of getting a cat before he found out he was allergic to most of them. At least, he assumes he must’ve said something, considering the little plush russian blue that sits on a handkerchief on top of his work desk in the shack, one that Harry’s currently nestled in beside as he glances over to it)._

He still remembers her words of encouragement as she checked him over before his interview, and the hand firmly holding onto his shoulder, helping to keep his mind inside the police car on the way back from the studio, letting him get his breathing back in order as he used her presence to ground himself. Never questioning why he’d gotten so… _worked up_ in the first place. 

Every time he’d slipped up, she’d never seemed _angry._ Something he didn’t realise exactly how much it meant to him until he really thinks it through. Maybe it’s just the haze in his memory, but he can’t _quite_ remember how mad she’d been during the… hospital incident. He tries not to think of that too often- most of that morning fogged over by his usual sickness-induced haze that drifted around his head until he managed to _crash into the Commissioner’s car,_ but for some reason, he tries to focus anyway. It hadn’t even taken any prodding for the truth to come out- because he could be honest with her, couldn’t he? Back home, it’d just been waiting for the next case. Back writing up case notes while his colleagues went out and made the arrest. He’d gotten used to it, being replacable. They’d probably even found a new member to fill his gap in the quiz team back home… But on Saint Marie, he didn’t have a replacement. There hadn’t been a murder case so far he _hadn’t_ fronted, hadn’t worked on until it was done, hadn’t gotten stuck into… Reminded him or why he was so eager to be a detective in the first place. Even back when he was a kid, watching Columbo or Poirot with his parents either side of him, doing his best to figure out the culprit each time. When that case came around, he’d been so used to _being part of the action_ that he didn’t realise how much he wanted to be there until he _wasn’t_.

He missed her. Missed all of them. Told her just that as well… And she didn’t snap at him. Just took a breath in, and told him it was stupid _(which it was),_ without any _venom_ in her tone, and even less in the hand on his shoulder and the quiet _“let’s go”_ as the two of them walked back to the car, her step slower than usual and gaze remaining with him, concerned and patient all the while…

The dressing gown’s still clutched in his hands- he hasn’t even moved from beside the bag. Shaking the thought out of his head, he folds the material up in his hands with as much care as he can muster for an item that suddenly feels _weirdly personal._ Unfortunately, as fast as one memory leaves his head, another tumbles in. _Even if the two things are different, in a weird kind of way, they match. Don’t they?_

As much as he’d hesitate to admit it to himself for one reason or another, he’d probably held a little fondness for the Sargent before he even met her. Even if the Commissioner had been purposefully brief on details, he remembers the dull pain in his chest when he’d come across the case notes while organising. Realising just what _“ a personal loss during a case. ”_ had meant. He wouldn’t call it a _connection_ , per se, but there’s a sort of understanding that comes with certain events, sometimes. The ability to reach out with something that feels familiar, and different at the same time. Taking in someone else’s pain, but when it reaches you, it’s deja vu of your own.

It was the same as the look in her eyes when he’d _stupidly_ let it slip his mind that the _someone_ she’d lost was her Fiancé, and that maybe setting up a dinner for two _might not have been the best idea_. Something that clicked the second he saw the look in her eyes- catching the breath in his lungs and sending his own heart back into that familiar feeling of both floating and sinking in the same time. Suspension. 

Even if his usual _‘look back and smile’_ instincts had kicked in, he feels like she got his message back then. Understood that… he understood too. Despite the twenty-something year gap in between events, and the difference in the relationship, they both _got it._ He shared his advice, and she shared hers, and then they _talked_. Nothing in particular, straying far from the original topic _(thankfully)_ , but he remembers the atmosphere being… warm. Even after all this time. 

There’s things you know, when you know how that kind of thing feels at its core. Neville knows all about letting people go, even if it’s not in the way he _should_ after all this time. He knows how hard it is. It’s why he’s so glad he caught her that evening at the bar, on the anniversary, gazing out across the river with her engagement ring in hand. Like he’s there all over again, he remembers the plan forming in his head as he realised he had a penny in his pocket, and the teary relief in her eyes as he produced the ring again after she’d thought it had been lost for good. 

_(And she kept to her word, as far as he can tell. Thinking back, he had seen her fiddling with some kind of chain around her neck when she seemed worried or anxious. He’d assumed it must’ve been a necklace, but now he knows. She hasn’t done it since.)_

Sighing into the quiet, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he sets the dressing gown up in the top cubby of the wardrobe along with his other pyjamas, _(t-shirts and shorts, mostly. Flannel wasn’t exactly an option anymore due to the heat. Found that one out the hard way)._ Eyes flicking down, he gets another glimpse of one of his father’s square-end ties looped around his neck, in the same knot he taught him when he was eleven and heading off to secondary school. Took him weeks to learn that- he could do it in his sleep now. It’s just become another every day occurrence, another part of his routine. 

_(She’s passed him, in that regard. Hasn’t she?)_

Outside his window, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore drift through the slits in the windows, pulled by the moon like always, fated to grow close and then fall away from something it knows it might never reach. 

But she’s sunlight, isn’t she? The _bright and early_ on market mornings, the freckles showing on his arms the more time he spends with his sleeves rolled up in the breeze, the ever constant that makes the land around him _paradise._

To him, it’s all her. The days continue on, different every time, but while circling around her, there’s something at their core. He’s orbiting, now he’s finally got something to center on that won’t leave him spiraling in on himself all over again.

_But what happens when you get too close to the sun?_

He shakes the thought from his head again, using his knuckles to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

_“Last night, when I saw you both, you looked very happy with her.”_

_He was…_ But like _that?_

Was Catherine right? About anything else, he’d trust her almost as much as Florence herself. After a while he’d realised the mayor reminded him of his own mother, in a way, or at least- what he could remember of the woman who’d shined each day before his father’s passing. Though, still just as kind and doting as always, _(even kind enough to bring him hotpot while he was in hospital)._ He _should_ trust her on this, but something’s still nagging at him all the while.

The words stick in the back of his head. The same head that he had to turn all his attention to not raising to just _look at her_ after he became conscious that he was _doing such a thing._ It doesn’t seem like something that would catch him off guard, so why did it? It’s not like Florence hasn’t always been beautiful… _(Breathtakingly beautiful-),_ but it had never seemed to _sneak up_ on him like this before. She’d always just been _Florence_. 

Warm, empathetic, _great_ Florence…

… _Oh._

Suddenly, almost all at once, it comes together. That _feeling_ sinking in again- a revelation suddenly dawning in his head, even if he didn’t realise there was something to solve in the first place. At least not until earlier this afternoon when Catherine had brought it up… 

But now he’s here, standing in the _tree shed_ he’s actually come to call home, with clues staring him in the face in almost every corner. Nevermind how he thinks of her, he can’t do anything but admit that he’s surrounded himself _with her,_ whether he intended to or not. There’s a warmth everywhere he looks, and even more so, he _feels_ it at every turn. A familiar feeling of comfort- _fondness,_ even- swirling in his chest, his heart doing something he might consider _fluttering_. At least, that’s what he assumes it must be. It’s as forgein as the world around him, though the most welcoming yet.

So he realises, and he remembers.

_Each and every reason why he might be a little bit in love with one Detective Sargent Florence Cassell._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure I wrote like two-thirds of this fic to the song "heat waves" and I'm not even mad, it slaps. As for the other third, I think The Fine Print made up another chunk of it. Editing was pretty much soundtracked by Hozier's "Sunlight", probably the most fitting song for this lmao. _Please don't question my music tastes._
> 
> -=-=-
> 
> Comments and Kudos are very much appreciated! :D I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> ~ Birdy


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